


All I've Ever Needed Is Here In Your Arms

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Asexual Character, BDSM, F/M, Not a BDSM AU, Specifically Clint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>t's incredibly common nowadays to see D/s fic where one character or another assures someone else that it "doesn't have to be sexual," even if we all know it's going to end up that way. As an asexual who is incredibly interested in the D/s culture, this is pretty discouraging to me.</p>
<p>What I would like to see is Clint as a sub, either knowing it at the start or finding a Dom who would like to help him explore it, but is unwilling to get into the sexual side of things. Simply not interested. He just needs someone to keep him in line and make him feel safe after a life of going through some horrible things virtually alone. Loki's influence was just the straw that broke the camel's back even if he doesn't realize it. Whether this is D/s 'verse or not is up to the author.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I've Ever Needed Is Here In Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Avenger's Kink Meme Prompt](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/14819) by Anonymous Prompt. 



It's after seven, and he wants to be sure he's on time, so he's tempted to rush, but he holds himself back. Punctuality isn't a requirement, she knows his job as well as anyone who lives a life Avenger adjacent can and has never held it against him, but he still feels like it will disappoint her if he's late.  
  
He won't hurry, but neither will he dawdle, efficiently showering, removing the day's stubble and rubbing lotion into his skin.   
  
At first he had thought she asked him to do this so that he would feel pleasant to her fingers, as though to invite her touch as a prelude to more, and with any other Dom it probably would be.   
  
When she finally figured out how he felt she had him curl up on the floor next to her, her hand on his shoulder, thumb stroking his collar as she explained that it wasn't for her. If he needs to come to her straight from battle, sweating and bloody, he is to do so; the reason she has him take each step is to start the process of washing away everyone else's expectations, especially his own, of who he is. Who he's expected to be.  
  
She hopes some day he'll trust her enough to be there to guide him, and he worries his lip, distressed that he isn't ready to give her this, something so simple, turned awkward. And he would have by now to, but she had pulled out of him that he's had Doms that wanted to bath him before, and they've always made him uncomfortable, their touch or gaze sexual, and in his desire to please them, to be _good_ , he's given in.  
  
Sometimes he wishes he hadn't told her, or that she would take instead of ask, or that he could bring himself to lie to her (no, not that, never that), so that she could have what she wants.  
  
But she says what she wants is for him to want her guidance, to come to her and ask, and he's not to do so until he means it, until it's something he wants, that he needs.  
  
He hates that he's so complicated, wanting what he doesn't want, afraid of it.  
  
So now, as he removes his uniform or street clothes, testing the water temperature, setting out the shaving kit and lotion, he isn't preoccupied with thoughts of how she will want his body, or what she might push for or take, but in stripping away the masks he wears, and of what it would be like to have here her.   
  
The thought doesn't scare him as much as it used to, and he thinks, maybe, someday, he can give this to her too; expose himself to her sight and touch, allow himself to be that open and vulnerable and not worry that she'll take advantage of him.   
  
Hawkeye's bow gets placed in its case, kept nearby in the event of an emergency, but closed, set aside. She doesn't want Hawkeye.  
  
He places his clothing in the hamper, taking each piece off slowly, preparing what he's going to say later as though preparing a report until he shakes that off. That's Barton, and that's not who she wants either.  
  
Once in the shower he takes his time, washing away the tension of the day as best he can, his fears that he isn't good enough, that he's broken, a thing made wrong, or perhaps once right but so scarred and beaten as to no longer be fixable.  
  
She doesn't want Clint. She doesn't see him as damaged goods to be used or patched up.  
  
He washes away the lather, turns off the water, and steps out of the shower. He takes his time drying off and then rubbing in the unscented lotion.  
  
This is him becoming what she _does_ want; no artifice, no role, just the core of him, her Boy.  
  
She's the first to completely respect his limits; she wants to take all he wants to give, but no more. She only pushes him for his own good and has never taken advantage of his trust.  
  
He dresses carefully, comfortable boxers, covered by the loose off-white gi; once bright and stiff but now worn soft after countless washings, it's comfortable enough to wear all day or to sleep in. He can stand or kneel for hours without feeling restricted, there are no hard seams or rough cloth to chaff his skin.  
  
He remains barefoot; he could climb through the vents, and in other moods has, but today he will walk, savoring the deep plush pile of the carpet under his toes.

He has one last thing to get. He kneels in front of his foot locker, taking three long, slow breathes before dialing the combination. He has a full bedroom set including an honest to God wardrobe, but he brought in his own locker, empty of but a few precious things; the tube containing a rolled up circus poster from the first time he headlined, a broken arrowhead from New Mexico, a blood stained Captain America trading card, and a flat square jewelry box.  
  
He opens the the last item, a smile playing keep-away with the corner of his mouth as he uses one finger tip to trace the soft black leather of his collar.   
  
Her collar.   
  
Her Boy's collar.   
  
He picks it up carefully, closing the box and setting it back in place in the locker, shutting the fire proof box and setting the lock.  
  
When he gets inside her room, Clint is still and silent, both arts he has perfected after years of training. He comes to her because she can break that calm, make him shake and cry, break him down so that he's no longer Hawkeye, or Barton, or even Clint.  
  
Her hands are soft but unyielding as she presses on his shoulders and he kneels on the pillow she set out for him, considerate of the aches and stiffness that can develop the longer he's on his knees, more noticeable with each passing year.   
  
Not that he ever misses his youth.  
  
"Boy." Her quiet reprimand lets him know she saw his thoughts drifting away from the moment, the here and now that she is so good at bringing into focus.   
  
He prefers to keep things at a distance, but that's one comfort she doesn't allow him.  
  
She sits in front of him, the black leather wing-back chair framing her; skin pale, hair a soft copper halo, her countenance confidently serene.  
  
"Tell me about your day, Boy."  
  
Another part of their ritual. She always says it the same way, not a request, an order; her hand brushes through the hair at his temple.  
  
He looks down, this is always the worst part of their sessions for him, this outpouring of self; but so necessary to achieve the release he seeks. If he hadn't lost his faith before he even knew what faith was he would think think of it as something sacred.   
  
He tells her everything, her clearance is higher than his, which should have been, but wasn't, surprising. Not that anything of note had happened today.  
  
He talks his way from waking up that morning until he ended up at her door, collar in hand. He looks up briefly as he stumbles over skipping dinner and knows she doesn't consider protein bars an adequate lunch. His eyes dart back down, catching the micro-frown of pain and he knows he will be punished for not taking care of himself.  
  
It hurts more that he had disappointed her, that she is going to have to hurt him, than any physical pain from his punishment will cause, and he resolves to do better, be better, for her.  
  
She stops stroking his hair to grab his chin, gently forcing him to look back up at her, her clear eyes steady, "What did you do wrong, Boy?"

He bites his lip. It was easier to say as part of his stream of consciousness monologue; having to call out his mistakes always sends a spike of fear through his heart that maybe this time it's one broken rule too many, that he's not good enough, will never _be_ good enough.

Her sudden grip on his hair is sharp, pain bringing involuntary tears to his eyes that he rapidly blinks away. He whispers, "Sor-" and winces, cutting off his apology as she pulls sharply. Her expression hasn't change, she isn't angry at his slip, or frustrated like most Doms get with him. She's simply reminding him that _she_ decides when and how he may ask for forgiveness- and now that's a another rule broken.

He swallows and takes a cleansing breath, watching her for a flicker of disapproval or disappointment, always surprised when he doesn't find it, "I had a power bar for lunch, I forgot to eat dinner, and I tried to apologize just now."

"Good Boy," the painful hand in his hair turns gentle again, soothing away the hurt. "And why do I have those rules?"

He breathes in her delicate perfume, letting his sense of her fill and surround him.

"I need to eat three nutritious meals every day, barring unavoidable mission circumstances," she never has to worry about him when he's on a mission, his various handlers are terrified of her and always make sure he eats and sleeps when possible, "because you take care of what's yours. If I don't take care of myself I'm neglecting my duty to you as your Boy. You determine what deserves punishment and amends your Boy will make, it's not your Boy's place to pick and choose, nor is it his responsibility."

He's starting to drop further into headspace now, more and more of Clint falling away to leave her Boy.

"Good Boy," she says again, as warm and comforting sunshine. "How many stokes do you deserve for each."

It's not a trick question, there is no right or wrong answer. It's to let her know where he's at. Sometimes he gets more, and sometimes less. Depending on what he's done and how long it takes him to get to this point he isn't always able to give her a number. She continues threading her fingers through his hair, keeping that connection and reassuring him through touch that he is in a safe place, that the only unbreakable rule is that he must always be honest with her.

"Boy?" She asks softly, sometimes they only get this far and he drifts to sleep, waking up minutes or hours later curled around her feet, or head in her lap. He isn't that far gone though; he could get there, but that feels like an evasion, as though he were trying to avoid his punishment.

He doesn't like pain, doesn't want it, but knows it's what he needs, one of the reasons he comes to her. He also knows it hurts her when she has to discipline him, that she doesn't do it for pleasure, but out of steadfast loyalty, out of commitment to him and his well being.

"F..five each for the meals, ten for the apology." He blinks his eyes open, unaware of closing them.

She breathes in sharply, he rarely asks for so many.  
  
This tells her both that he's more concerned with disobeying her while in her presence, and that he needs her to reinforce her dominion. "Three for lunch, ten for skipping dinner and five for the apology. I am please you ate something, but next time you think you're too busy to eat properly you are to stop what you're doing and count to five. Use this time to carefully consider your options, and bear in mind how it reflects on me when you don't take care of yourself."  
  
"Yes, Ma'am," he turns his face up into her hand and she pets him, caressing his brow and cheek before cupping his chin, easing the guilt he feels.   
  
She's right, it's easy to forget to take care if himself, to drive past his bodies base requirements; but when he frames it as a question of taking care of her Boy, of what it says about Pepper as his Dom if he's snappy from hunger, or skipping sleep until his eyes are red and bruised, that he can care about.   
  
That matters.  
  
"Up Boy." He shivers, and stretches as he stands. He looks to the wall and then back to the side table with his collar.   
  
She picks it up reverently, "Do you want this, first?"  
  
He nods shyly. He doesn't need to be punished as often anymore; in the beginning he preferred to wait until after for his collar, to fully be her Boy with a clean slate. Today he needs it now, first; needs to feel as though she is continuously touching him.  
  
Eighteen. He shakes a little. It's not the most he's ever had to take, but it's a lot, and more that he has brought upon himself in a long time.  
  
"Shhh, my Boy," she says coming resting her hand on his shoulder, kneading at the tension that's started to gather, "My good Boy."  
  
She has the collar over one wrist and is rubbing both shoulders and his neck, and he feels some of the anxiousness drains away as she works on his trap with her thumbs pressing up and down to either side of his spine, easing the strain between his shoulder blades.   
  
It takes several minutes until he's standing loose and still, only then does she slip the collar around his neck; as she buckles it she says, as she always has, "Thank you for the gift of your submission."  
  
This time when he shakes it's the good kind, the kind that comes from sinking into the here and now; she thanks him, and he feels honored. She never says it with one ounce less compassion than the first time, the joy she feels that he chooses her to lead him, to take him in hand and free him from himself.   
  
He blinks away his tears, knowing that she will not mind that he wants to hide them; if he were to let them fall she would gently wipe them away, and maybe pardon his offenses without further action, but he needs each stripe to sink into his skin. He needs to feel it tomorrow when he puts in his time at the range, or is sparing with his teammates.  
  
She's always careful, precise. He never has to worry about it interfering with his aim, which lets Hawkeye and Barton settle deeper in the back of his mind. He's never asked her how she came by her skill, he just accepts it as part and parcel of the competence that is Pepper Potts. No more would he question why rain is wet, or sugar sweet.  
  
"Do you need more time?"  
  
He shakes his head, "No. No, Ma'am."  
  
He walks over to the wall and grabs the microfiber loops attached to metal rings that recess into the wall. He debates on how much he will need them as she usually leaves it up to him. He could place his hands against the wall, forgoing the them altogether, or push his hands through the loops and twist them until they're snug against his wrists.   
  
'Eighteen,' he thinks; and places his hands up though the loops before grabbing the soft fabric in an easy grip.  
  
Pepper comes up behind him and pulls him into a loose hug, reassuring him with her warmth. With her heels she has a couple inches on him when she tilts her head against him ear presses above his temple. She brings a hand up to his throat, letting it rest against the leather of his collar and he takes a couple deep breaths, safe in her embrace. She has fastened it so that he doesn't feel constricted, but with each breath he is aware of it shifting against his skin.

"Ready?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"Safewords?"  
  
"No, stop, or red to stop. Yellow or wait to pause."  
  
"Good boy," he'll never get tired of hearing it.   
  
He's had Doms that wanted him to pick a special word just for them, but Pepper's different. When he asked her she turned it around on him, "What do _you_ want?"  
  
He thinks, maybe someday, when he really screws up (it will happen, it always happens) he will ask her to take away his "no". The thought frightens him, but she's so good to him, so good _for_ him, when it inevitably happens he's going to need her to take more from him than he can give. He only hopes she's strong enough to do so. He thinks she is.   
  
He knows he should voice these thoughts, but he is afraid; afraid of exposing this weakness, afraid of asking for what he wants, of being too needy. He knows she will be sad that he's kept this from her, but he isn't ready, not yet and she's more upset when he pushes himself too quickly.  
  
Pushing him is her responsibility, not his and he tries not to not school his expression into what he thinks she wants to see, just feel and be.  
  
The loss of her warmth causes him to shiver, and he doesn't hold back his soft sound of discontent and fear. She pets the back of his head as she pulls away, "Shhh, you're doing so well, sweetheart. I want you to count each one for me. Can you do that?"  
  
He nods, tightening his grip on the soft fabric.  
  
She picks up the switch, a long slender piece of bamboo, designed to sting more than bruise. She swishes it through the air a couple times, letting him hear where it is before the first blow falls across his left shoulder and he catches his surprised yelp as he force himself to not pull away.  
  
"One"  
  
"Good Boy." She waits a beat and places the next below the first.  
  
He whimpers slightly, "Two."  
  
"Good Boy."  
  
She places the third in line with the other two.  
  
"Th..three."  
  
"Good boy. And what where those for?" She rubs at the welts forming beneath the soft cotton, soothing and sore at the same time.  
  
"For, for not eating a proper lunch, for not taking care of your Boy."  
  
"And next time?"   
  
She presses each of the stripes with her fingers as he replies, "Next time count to five and th..think about how my choices reflect on you, Ma'am."  
  
"Good Boy," she lightly scratches her hand across his scalp. Ready for the next set?"  
  
He nods and she grips his hair, he lets out a surprised, "Oh!"  
  
"Use your words, Boy."  
  
"Y..yes Ma'am, I- your Boy is ready."  
  
She smooths down his hair, "Good Boy."  
  
She silently switches to his right side where he'll feel these more tomorrow; he's ambidextrous but tends uses his right hand more than his left.  
  
"Count."   
  
There's no warning swish this time, and he had expected her to continue on the left. He yells, squeezing his fists around the loops and pressing up against the wall.  
  
She gives him a few seconds.  
  
"Boy?"  
  
"One! One." He cringes and a tear runs down his cheek. He doesn't want this, it hurts and he wants it to stop, but he needs it. He was bad, he broke the rules, _HER_ rules. He's falling, falling even as he presses himself upright against the cool wall, hands tight around the loops as he struggles with himself.  
  
Her hand twists in the neckline of his shirt and she pulls him away from the wall; he's not sure he's ready to leave it's support, but he has to be, because she wills it.  
  
"Good. Good Boy. Nine more."  
  
The next three are easier to take, not as sharp, and even though he shouldn't, he anticipates where each will land.   
  
"Two," his breath hitching slightly.  
  
"Good Boy."   
  
The third gives him a matching set of welts on each shoulder.  
  
There's more of a pause before he whimpers quietly, "Three."  
  
"Good Boy. I'm so proud of you. Up straight. That's a good Boy."  
  
He's flinching before the next one lands and by the time he comes back to himself to rasp out, "Four" he's breathing hard, sweating as though he's run a race and tears run freely down his face. That's seven total, he's not even halfway through the second offense. He's not going to make it. He's going to fail her.  
  
She brings him back with a soft caress against his cheek, turning his face towards her so she can look him in the eye as she tells him, "Good Boy."

The next is as hard as the first from this set and he yells again, managing to not crowd the wall by pulling down on the restraints, biceps flexing as he lifts himself to his toes. He wants it to stop, please, stop, no more, but he grits his teeth, he can't disappoint her, her boy needs to be punished.  
  
"Shhh, shhh. It's okay, sweet boy. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere." She keeps making calming sounds and he breathes through the panic, it's not a threat that there's more to come but a promise that she's by his side, with him, here for him. She strokes his temple, "What color, Boy?"  
  
He's still shaking but manages to lower himself until his feet are firm on the soft carpet. He grits out between his teeth, " **Five**."  
  
She jerks him back by his collar, he frantically tightens his grip as she twists him; the smooth grain of the switch presses against the back of his neck as she slaps him across the face, sharp and immediate, "No!"  
  
She lets go of his collar and he gasps as he swings back around to face the wall. Trembling, he bows his head and tears spill from his rapidly blinking eyes to soak into the carpet.  
  
"What color?" she orders, voice   
  
He shakes his head, face flushed with shame.  
  
"Yellow?"  
  
He curls into himself shaking his head 'no' again, refusing to answer, instead burying his face in the soft folds of his sleeve to muffle his cries.  
  
She inhales sharply and is around him again, the switch against the wall as she embraces him.  
  
"Sweetheart, you _have_ to tell me when you get to yellow and not wait until it's too much." She gathers him back against her, hugging him close, pressing her face into his neck.  
  
He can feel her tears fall against his skin and he sobs, he's failing her, stupid worthless Boy, _he's failing her_.  
  
She rocks them gently where the sand and after a minute or so he stands up straight.  
  
"F..five.," he whispers through his tears.  
  
She lets him go slowly, her touch lingering as she whispers back, "Good Boy."  
  
Her voice is firm as she continues, "We're done with that set, "she cuts off his moan of protest with a shake of his neck, her fingers slipping under her collar, pulling it against his throat as she presses against his skin, "Two more. One for apologizing out of turn, one for not using your safewords."  
  
"He can do it," he whispers, "he can take all eighteen. Please, Ma'am?"  
  
"No!" She barks tugging her collar and he shifts, feeling the welts on his back pull. "I said two. Are you going to argue, or are you going to be good for me?"  
  
He hangs his head, "Yours. Your g..g.."he stumbles over the word, finally managing to force it out," Your good Boy."  
  
"That's right, sweetheart, you _are_ my good Boy. No more counting. Two fast and then we're done."  
  
He nods, biting his lip. "Yes ma'am. I'll be good."  
  
"I know you will. Up straight. When you're ready," she says as she steps away, retrieving the switch.  
  
Her Boy takes a deep breath, and raises his head, her collar a solid weight around his throat. He rubs the loops between his fingers, settling his grip and nods.  
  
They're so fast he can barely tell them apart, criss crossing the lines on his right shoulder, harder than any she's given since they first tested his tolerance, and it's too much but it's what he deserves and it hurts, it HURTS and he screams, collapsing to his knees, arms pulled up tautly by his fists clenched in the restraints, "Please! Please, Boy is sorry, so sorry, please!"  
  
She's there almost as he hits the ground, freeing his hands and letting him curl in her lap, "I forgive you, Boy. I forgive you. My good, sweet Boy, I forgive you."  
  
She's pressing chaste kisses to his head, arms cradling him as he breaks, not even Boy anymore, just hers.   
  
Just hers.  
  
She lets him cry, rubbing circles on his lower back, avoiding the welts as he clings to her, shaking.  
  
At one point he feels her hand against his skin, tracing each mark, so light that there's almost no pain, just a hint of soreness. When she's satisfied with each one she gathers him in close again, letting his tears dry against her shoulder.

Sometime later she's helping him stand, leading him to the bed and tucking him in on his left side. She's gone for a moment and he whimpers, the shaking back but then she's touching him again, guiding his head up to take a couple sips of cool water before she takes the glass away and lowers his head back to the pillow.   
  
She kisses his forehead, "I'll be right back, sweetheart. Will you be okay while I change?"  
  
He nods sleepily, his eyes drifting shut. He hears the bathroom door open and shut and the water run. The sound of her brushing her teeth is comfortingly domestic. A few minutes later she's turning out the lights and curling up next to him, the smooth silk of her pajamas rustling against the sheets.  
  
She carefully pulls herself closer, not jostling him as she drapes her arm around his waist, not pressing up against his back, but getting close enough that he can feel her warmth, "Go to sleep, sweet Boy. I'll be right here when you wake."  
  
He nods into the pillow, twining his fingers in hers before drifting off to the soft sound of her praise. "My good, sweet, Boy."

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lot of additional information at the prompt. I have the next part story boarded and am working the kinks out.
> 
> And yes, that pun hurts me as much as it does you, but pain is the only way we will learn.
> 
> \-----  
> For those familiar with my tendency to create OOC MetaFic while writing, here is a conversation with Ace!Clint and Dom!Pepper  
> ____  
> Sorry for the delay, all. The next part was going swimmingly in my head and then Clinty-bird went all shy on me when I tried to put it in writing.
> 
> «Fft. I'm not shy. It's just ... Private.»
> 
> Dude. You're a figment of my imagination. I know you inside and out. I can twist you into a pret-
> 
> Wow.
> 
> Okay, so Pepper's disapproving frowns may be even harder to take than Cap's.
> 
> Good to know.
> 
> Next chapter will be up once Clint STOPS FIGHTING ME EVERY FRICKIN' STEP OF THE WAY.
> 
> Seriously!
> 
> Um. Err, I mean once Clint and I have both discussed the best way to share his deeply personal feelings in a respectful and dignified manner.
> 
> Right, Pep?
> 
> I mean Ms. Potts?
> 
> Um, I mean, Ma'am?
> 
> §Good Para.§


End file.
